


i was yours before i knew (and you have always been mine too)

by katsukifatale (TrumpetGeek)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Embedded Images, Eventual Smut, Festivals, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Light Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Universe Alteration, Viktuuri Big Bang 2017, canon compliant up to the sochi banquet, flower shop, i mean its viktor and yuuri after all, mentions of mild depression and anxiety, rating will go up next chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2018-12-05 02:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11568264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrumpetGeek/pseuds/katsukifatale
Summary: “Ah, I’m sorry, let me –”Viktor looks up.Viktor stares.“Oh,wow,” he breathes.He’s wearing an ugly green apron with smears of dirt and wet patches, a pair of dirty jeans, and a very alluring light pink blush. His black hair sticks up on the side and his glasses sit askew on his face, probably a result of Makkachin’s exuberant kisses. He looks about as dazed as Viktor feels.-Katsuki Yuuri, former skating prodigy of Japan, has come back home after a couple failed seasons to work at his childhood friends flower shop. Viktor Nikiforov, five time figure skating world champion and Russia's living legend, ends up in a small town in southern Japan on his journey for inspiration and motivation. They cross paths for the first time on a cold day in mid-January, and nothing is the same again.





	1. winter

**Author's Note:**

> brought to you by the og yuri on ice big bang event, [@yurionicebigbang](http://yurionicebigbang.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> nearly three hundred ppl participated in this event as writers, artists, pinch-hitters, betas, and volunteers. its been a lot of fun managing and creating alongside them. pls go check out the rest of the works [here](http://yurionicebigbang.tumblr.com/tagged/works17), [here](http://yurionicebigbang.tumblr.com/tagged/roundup17/chrono), or [here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/viktuurireversebang17/works) and let the creators know how much you appreciate their hard work!
> 
> speaking of hard work and appreciation, my artist partner for this round is [rynyn](http://rynyn.tumblr.com/) and shes been absolutely amazing. i couldnt have asked for a better friend or bang partner. pls go check out [her beautiful art](http://rynyn.tumblr.com/post/163267893537/)!
> 
> -  
> title comes from [a leav lang poem](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/858816-you-were-you-and-i-was-i-we-were-two).

****

**  
**

 

* * *

 

**i. winter**

_my lovers suffocate me … calling my name from flower-beds, vines, tangled underbrush, lighting on every moment of my life … noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts and giving them to be mine._ \- walt whitman

* * *

 

  
Viktor spends his life, from age six to age twenty-seven, in a committed relationship with the ice.

 

He loves everything about it – the chill coming off the ice, the way the rink looks in the early mornings when the water sun filters through the windows, the commotion of his rinkmates. The moment his blades touch the ice he knows he’s in for life. He loves the strength, the artistry of it. Loves watching the senior skaters fly. He falls a lot, bruises his knees and his pride and scrapes up his palms, but he falls in love with the exhilaration of getting back up and trying again.

 

Eventually he learns to fly too. Eventually he stops falling, and as he gets older he learns what it really means to chase gold. He learns that being a professional skater is about more than just the twelve or so collective minutes he spends performing, pouring every ounce of his skill and artistry into the routines he helped cultivate from the ground up. He learns politics. He learns sacrifice.

 

Eventually he stops falling.

 

(Eventually he stops _flying._ )

 

He learns how to smile in front of a camera, how to be who everyone else wants him to be. He’s a star now. Stars are beautiful, stars are studied. Worshipped. Stars are the bright pinprick culminations of childhood dreams, the symbols for a vastly unexplored frontier that’s held captive the minds and hearts of entire civilizations.

 

(Stars have power, stars are beautiful, and, well.

 

They die beautifully, too.)

 

Eventually he ends up on the podium after winning the Grand Prix Final in Barcelona, a gold medal around his neck and a bouquet of flowers in his arms, wondering if there’s something wrong with him.

 

(He doesn’t remember how he got there.)

 

Because everyone around him is ecstatic. Christophe is grinning, pressing his tongue lewdly against his silver medal, and Jean-Jacques is pouting over his bronze even though everyone can tell he’s pleased to be on the podium. Russia’s tri-color flag hangs behind him, the national anthem playing over the speakers, and Viktor knows what he looks like – perfect hair, perfect posture, perfect smile. Keeps his chin up, keeps his body angled just so, smiles til his jaw creaks. He knows by now what people want from him. He looks like a national hero – he _is_ a national hero.

 

He should _feel_ like a national hero, too, but all he feels beneath his painted face and sparkly costume is suffocated.

 

(He just wants to be able to _breathe_ again.)

 

Standing there and listening to his name fill the arena, he remembers what it’d been like all those years ago, when he’d first set foot on the ice with his mother’s loving eyes and proud smile trained on him. Remembers what it had felt like to wholeheartedly love the sport he’d given everything to. That one magical moment had seemed like the start of his life.

 

Turns out, Viktor had been mistaken.

 

Turns out, Viktor’s life actually starts on a cold January morning, the day he meets Katuski Yuuri.

 

 

—

 

 

Somehow, on the tail end of winter, Viktor ends up in a backwater town in Japan.

 

Hasetsu is small but not compact. It spreads itself out, fingers of municipality reaching through forest and over mountain, dipping into the sea. The smell of the ocean and the cry of the seagulls remind Viktor of home, but Hasetsu is downright balmy in the winter months compared to St Petersburg, which is why Viktor feels like he can finally, maybe, relax the tension in his shoulders and settle his searching heart.

 

(He hasn’t figured out what he’s looking for yet, but at least he can breathe now.

 

The first few breaths had been hard, like needles in his throat and shards of glass in his lungs. But it’s getting easier, day by day.)

 

He’s discovered that Hasetsu is a great town for running. He runs a different route each morning, half because old habits die hard and half because he loves the feeling of his lungs filling with fresh air tinged with salt and ocean spray. The smells and sounds of Hasetsu are familiar enough to cut through the nerves of being alone in a foreign country where he lacks the language skills to truly get around. It’s a comfortable feeling, and it brings him back to the home he’s been feeling a bit nostalgic for – the home without artifice, the home without the constellations of camera flashes all going off at once, the home where gold medals don’t feel quite so cold against his skin.

 

He runs a different route each morning, tries to put a map together in his head of the places Makkachin likes to sniff and which sidewalk cafes are open early and have the best breakfast. In this way Viktor finds he can map out its people, too.

 

He knows that there’s an old fisherman who stands on the bridge each morning with his pole and a bucket of bait, and Viktor knows that he arrives before the sun and departs after it drops beneath the sea. He knows what the sea looks like bathed in the pastel colors of a winter sunrise, and the timbre of delivery trucks that fly from the docks to the markets with the morning’s catch. He knows that the castle on the hill looks ethereal when sprinkled with powdered sugar snow and that it sparkles when the sun catches it just right. He knows the chatter of barflies who come for a drink before their commute to work, and the very, very faint sounds of families waking up to start a new day together.

 

He knows where the ice rink is at all times, can feel it lurking there at the edge of his awareness, just beneath the castle.

 

(He has this habit, this compulsion, embedded in him from a lifetime of answering the ice’s seductive siren call.

 

People instinctively seek the familiar in strange places – closest metro station, a fast-food restaurant, a well-loved department store. Places that are recognizable and radiate comfort, places that prove that this new town, this foreign country aren’t all that different from home.

 

Viktor seeks beaches and ice rinks.)

 

He sometimes likes to make up stories about the people he sees on his runs. Maybe the fisherman has a wife and children who moved on to bigger and better things, leaving him to stare forlornly into the ocean as time marches on without him. Maybe the barfly he sees stumbling out of the bar in the early rays of the morning is trying to drown out the embers of a dying relationship by dousing it with alcohol and miserable company. Maybe the delivery drivers making their runs from dock to market are secretly in love, but they can’t express their feelings because they work for rival companies. Maybe the lights he sees in the shuttered windows of the ice rink are the remnants of dying stars, of a skater trying to hold onto the last vestiges of a lackluster career.

 

(He’s always felt a kinship with the stars, always wanted to be one.

 

Stars are beautiful.

 

But stars are also lonely, and the space between them is cold and empty.)

 

Viktor relates.

 

Today he runs with Makkachin. She’s getting older, and it’s not something he likes to think about, but winter is harsh on her joints and Viktor loves her too much to make her go out when she’s curled up asleep on her doggy bed, no matter how much she likes being outside and no matter that Viktor misses her companionship. But today his best friend is with him, and his steps are light as she bounds a few feet in front of him. Every few moments she looks over her shoulder as if to make sure her human is still there, and oh boy is that endearing.

 

As a treat he takes her along the white sand beaches of Hasetsu Bay, and then cuts through Niji-no-Matsubara. The weak morning sunlight barely penetrates the thick fingers of the pine trees, and it’s peacefully quiet. Makkachin flits back and forth, sniffing trees and chasing the soft trill of birds. They burst out into brighter sunlight and heavier traffic as the morning moves sluggishly along, running along the wide sidewalks of the main road leading to the castle.

 

He’s been in this neighborhood a few times at various points in his runs – the castle sort of draws him in, he can’t really help but be fascinated – but hasn’t been here with Makka yet. So he’s shocked and a little alarmed when she pauses ahead of him and suddenly bolts off down the street at a dead gallop.

 

He stands there gaping like a fish for a moment before he realizes what just happened, and then he jolts into action, chasing after Makkachin’s curly tail disappearing into the distance.

 

“Makkachin! Wait!” He’s winded from an already long run but he lengthens his stride and manages to catch up to his companion just as she takes a running leap at some poor unsuspecting soul standing outside a small flower shop.

 

“Ah! Makkachin, no!”

 

To his increasing horror, Makkachin _bowls the person over._ She’s got her front paws on the man’s chest and is happily snuffling all over him, her pink tongue coming out to drag across the stranger’s face and neck in overfriendly kisses.

 

Viktor hurries the last few meters over and drops to his knees to gently push his dog off of her unsuspecting victim.

 

“Oh my god, I am _so_ sorry!” he says, hastily pulling her leash out of his coat pocket and clipping it onto her collar. He doesn’t normally have to do this and he feels bad for it, but he doesn’t actually know the leash laws here and he doesn’t want to watch his dog go sailing off again without him. He puts a hand under her chin to look her in the eyes, and says, “Makkachin, no. We don’t jump on people.”

 

She whines a bit and pushes her nose into his chest in apology, and Viktor can feel his stern demeanor soften as he cards his fingers through her fur.

 

“Um.”

 

Viktor jumps and immediately flushes in embarrassment. He’d forgotten all about the man his dog had just unceremoniously flopped on.

 

“Ah, I’m sorry, let me –”

 

Viktor looks up.

 

Viktor stares.

 

“Oh, _wow_ ,” he breathes.

 

 

He’s wearing an ugly green apron with smears of dirt and wet patches, a pair of dirty jeans, and a very alluring light pink blush. His black hair sticks up on the side and his glasses sit askew on his face, probably a result of Makkachin’s exuberant kisses. He looks about as dazed as Viktor feels.

 

The man his dog knocked down is easily the most gorgeous person Viktor has _ever seen._ Beautiful. Stunning. Devastating. He wracks his brain for lists of synonyms and comes up blank, perhaps because his brain has melted and dribbled out his ears.

 

Viktor realizes he’s staring way too long judging by the rather alarming shade of red that creeps over the man’s cheeks and disappears into the collar of his shirt. It takes a supreme effort to muster up the wherewithal to hold out a hand to help the man up.

 

(The man bypasses his hand to grasp his forearm, and Viktor has to remind himself to breathe through his nose because the man’s grip is strong on Viktor’s wrist and the muscles in his arm shift beneath Viktor’s palm as he pulls himself up. His t-shirt covers most of his upper arm but Viktor can see his bicep tighten with the effort of it.)

 

(This is glorious. This is _divine_. Viktor can die a happy man.)

 

An awkward silence permeates the air between them once they’re both finally on their feet again. The man fidgets – shifts his weight, curls his fingers in the hem of his apron. His eyes flit everywhere, from the ground to Viktor’s face to Makkachin to –

 

“Oh no, I’m so sorry!” Viktor says when he sees the broken pieces of flower pot and mess of dirt on the ground. Now Viktor feels doubly guilty; his dog just assaulted a Very Handsome man, broke his merchandise, and killed a flower! Makkachin boofs up at them both as Viktor scrambles for his wallet. “Here, let me pay for it!”

 

“N-no need, Vi – um, sir. Your dog is just being a dog,” the man says, and wow, even his _voice_ is attractive. He sounds fond – obviously a fellow dog-lover. Viktor feels like he’s floating. He wants to know if he can leverage this into something more.

 

“Viktor, please. Viktor Nikiforov.”

 

(The man’s nails are stained green at the edges, and his cheeks are soft and pink like cherry blossoms. Viktor decides to call him Flower Boy.)

 

Desperate, he searches around for something else to say, some way to keep time from moving forward. Some way to make sure this marvelous being, with his otherworldly chocolate brown eyes and his sweet round cheeks from ever leaving his presence.

 

“Say, is there a place nearby that makes a decent cup of tea?” he blurts out.

 

“Oh, um, yes,” Flower Boy says. He bends over to pick up the sharp pieces of pottery so that Makkachin doesn’t hurt herself, and Viktor feels himself short-circuiting yet again at the view he’s presented with. The man’s jeans pull taut around his thighs with the motion and holy _heck,_ Viktor is going to launch himself straight into the atmosphere. “If you just go down the street a little ways there’s Tea and Space Kikouan that’s decent. They sell tea and supplies too if you find one that you like.”

 

Viktor nods vigorously. He will go anywhere this man suggests, both because Viktor is irrevocably enamored and would go to hell and back with this man and still consider it a date, and because he is a tourist here and has approximately zero knowledge on what there is to do around here.

 

The hope is, of course, that Flower Boy will offer to take him there himself. But the silence lingers awkwardly between them, Viktor still nodding like an idiot and the man shifting his weight awkwardly from side to side and appearing uninterested in meeting Viktor’s gaze. Or gazing in the remote vicinity of Viktor.

 

 _Ahh, please, you are so beautiful,_ he thinks desperately.

 

“Alright, um. Have fun.”

 

Oh.

 

 _Oh._ Of course. Flower Boy is probably just starting his shift. It’s eight in the morning. Of course he can’t just drop his work and join Viktor for a beverage. Of course.

 

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. “I’ll let you get back to your job. See you later, Flower Boy!”

 

The man sputters adorably at Viktor’s retreating back.

 

(Viktor goes to Tea and Space Kikouan by himself, like Flower Boy suggested. The sencha is the most delicious tea he’s ever tasted. He takes no less than seven photos of it to put on Instagram – location left off, of course.)

 

(He wonders what kind of tea Flower Boy would order. Wonders what the afternoon sunlight would do to the pretty golden flecks in his eyes, what he’d look like laughing across the table from Viktor, if he’d like to share a matcha affogato in the evening.

 

He vows to find out.)

 

 

—

 

 

Viktor calls Chris as soon as he gets back to the hotel.

 

“You will not _believe_ the man I just met. Oh my _god_ Chris he is so beautiful! His eyes! His hair! And — and his _face_ _!_ He blushes and the angels come out to sing! His lashes are so _long_ Chris I don’t even — ! Shit, I think I’m in love?”

 

“Merde.”

 

 

—

 

 

The next morning Viktor goes on his run as usual. He’s tempted to go run the same route, past the flower shop, just so he can see Flower Boy in his native environment, but he knows they hadn’t met on the best circumstances the day before and he wants to make a good second impression. So he runs up Kagamiyama instead, and goes back to the hotel to take a shower and make himself presentable.

 

He spends an inordinate amount of time debating which color Flower Boy might like on him better. Green? Lilac? Oh, but what if he thinks those colors are too cliché because of their association with plants… Maybe blue? By the time he’s ready to go it’s past breakfast and his plans of bringing Flower Boy a muffin and coffee are totally derailed. Which might actually be a blessing because he doesn’t actually _know_ if Flower Boy likes muffins or coffee, or what flavor of muffin he might prefer.

 

(Viktor is a mess.)

 

(Viktor is a mess but he feels so giddy with anticipation and excitement that he almost doesn’t know what to do with himself. He thinks this must be what it’s supposed to feel like, in that moment between the end of a really good skate and reading his scores in the kiss and cry.)

 

(He wouldn’t know. He can’t remember.)

 

He makes it to the flower shop just in time for lunch. It looks different in the midday sunlight, not as magical but still charming and quaint. It’s small, tucked in between a couple other buildings Viktor doesn’t know the use of. There are shelves on either side of the door, presumably for holding flowering plants during the warmer months; now they just contain what look like miniature Christmas trees. Some of them are even decorated with tiny ornaments.

 

Viktor smiles to himself. They’re cute. He wonders if Flower Boy decorated them.

 

A bell over the door chimes delicately when Viktor pushes it open, and a curl of warm air meets his skin as he steps in from the outside chill. Outside the shop looks small but inside it’s good-sized, with a counter, a work station, glass-doored coolers and a walk-in. Green and flowering plants sit in the closest corner, and bouquets line the foot of the counter at the cash register. There are enough windows to let in all kinds of natural light, sinking the entire shop into a Ghibli-esque slice of liminal space. Streaks of sunlight illuminate dust particles floating in the air, striping up the floor and the walls with patches of warmth.

 

A voice calls something in Japanese. Viktor doesn’t understand Japanese but he understands customer service, so he hums in response and moves along the walk-in coolers. Inside are dozens of arrangements, ranging for simple and delicate to full and complicated, color bursting everywhere he looks. They’re all beautiful, with perfectly curled ribbons and complimentary vases. A pretty blue and white one catches his eye, its centerpiece a beautiful blue rose, blown wide.

 

“Oh!”

 

Viktor jumps and turns, warmth spreading across his chest and cheeks at the sight of Flower Boy. He’d been knocked on his ass yesterday but today, standing there in front of Viktor with his wide brown eyes, messy hair and slightly round stomach, Viktor is sure that his original assessment had been correct – this is the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen. He’s got the same dirty apron and jeans on but today he’s holding a little baby blue watering can that’s shaped like an elephant, with the trunk as the spout, and that kind of cements the concept of attractiveness in Viktor’s mind.

 

(He’s _perfect._ )

 

(He looks familiar somehow.)

 

“Um, hello Viktor,” he says shyly. He glances between Viktor and the arrangement he’d been looking at and, inexplicably, turns pink. “Is there something I can help you with?”

 

“I just wanted to thank you for your recommendation yesterday,” he replies smoothly. “The sencha was really good.”

 

“Ah,” Flower Boy says, looking surprised. “You’re welcome.” He turns away and begins watering the buckets of bouquets near the counter. Viktor follows him, eager like a puppy.

 

“Mm. I was wondering if you had any others? Recommendations, I mean. For anything. I’m new here – a tourist, but I’m staying here a while.”

 

Viktor had come up with a foolproof plan at three that morning. If he, a tourist, asks Flower Boy to show him around town, take him to all of his favorite spots, he can kill two birds with one stone – he can get to know Flower Boy and maybe their outings will eventually become dates, and he can get to know the little town he’s landed in through the eyes of someone who, for all Viktor knows, is native. It’s perfect! Ingenious!

 

“Sure,” Flower Boy says. His voice is still tinged with surprise, and he keeps sneaking sidelong glances at Viktor when he thinks Viktor’s not looking, as if he expects him to dissolve into stardust and float away. “Have you been to Kagamiyama yet?”

 

“Yes! I ran up this morning actually, the view is gorgeous!”

 

Flower Boy’s mouth curls up in a half-smile that makes Viktor’s heart hammer in his chest.

 

“Well, if you like history, maybe Hasetsu Castle? It’s a tough walk up the hill but there’s a museum about the castle’s history, and if you go up to the top floor you get some great views. The grounds are pretty nice too, even in winter.”

 

“Hmm,” Viktor puts his forefinger to his lips in thought. “I think if Flower Boy suggests it, then I should go!”

 

“F-flower Boy!”

 

“You don’t think it’s fitting?”

 

“No!”

 

Viktor laughs as Flower Boy’s eyes screw shut and his face explodes with color. He’s so expressive!

 

“You! You should go so you have enough time at the castle!”

 

Viktor can only laugh harder as Flower Boy plants his hands on his back and pushes him out the door.

 

 

—

 

 

“Flower Boy!” Viktor cries when he walks into the flower shop the following week. Flower Boy, whose back is to the door, startles bad enough to fumble the arrangement he’s in the process of placing in the walk-in cooler.

 

“Viktor!” He says. He puts a hand on his own chest, fingers curling in to his collar in shock. “Don’t scare me like that, I might hurt the flowers.”

 

Viktor winces. “Sorry.”

 

The place is starting to fill up with carnations and roses of every color, and the wintery-themed arrangements give way to soft pinks, snowy whites and bright reds. Flower Boy picks his way over through the forest of flower-filled buckets littering the floor of the shop.

 

Viktor idly wonders if the scent of roses permeates Flower Boy’s hair, or lingers on his skin.

 

“What are you – um, what can I do for you?” Flower Boy asks, hands wringing together at the hem of his apron.

 

“The castle was so awesome! The view from the top was even better than Kagamiyama, and! It’s a ninja house! A _ninja house!_ ”

 

Flower Boy bites his lip, but Viktor can see the smile straining in the curve of his mouth and the sheen of his eyes anyway. “I’m glad you liked it.”

 

“Of course I did, you recommended it!” Viktor says happily, oblivious to the way Flower Boy flushed and sputtered. Viktor would happily go anywhere Flower Boy recommends.

 

Of course, he’d rather go _with_ Flower Boy, but this is okay too.

 

“I – I’m glad,” Flower Boy says again, soft-voiced but somehow satisfied. Viktor gives him a heart-shaped smile, and they both stand there a bit awkwardly until Viktor remembers his gifts.

 

“Ah, I didn’t know if you preferred coffee or tea, but I figured there are probably fewer ways to prepare tea than there are coffee so tea seemed like a safe bet? And I realized halfway through my order that I don’t actually know if you even _like_ pastries, or even what some of them are because I can’t read Japanese, so I panicked and bought one of each.” Viktor holds out three slightly crumpled to-go bags and a to-go cup of still steaming matcha.

 

“I don’t – it’s not – okay, thank you,” Flower Boy says, looking a bit dazed. He reaches out for one of the bags and retreats behind the counter, Viktor automatically following behind him.

 

They end up splitting the pastries between them. Viktor learns that Flower Boy likes warmed up blueberry muffins, red bean paste filled pancakes called dorayaki, custard filled fish-things called taiyaki, and a sweet bread crusted in sugar granules called melon pan, and a white sponge-cake type of thing that Flower Boy says is native to Kyushu called karukan. Viktor learns that Flower Boy likes matcha tea the best, but that he also likes the bitterness of black coffee and the subtle sweetness of kabusecha.

 

Viktor learns that Flower Boy laughs easy when he’s relaxed.

 

(And _oh,_ the sound of his laughter is enough to build a fire in Viktor’s cold, empty chest.)

 

 

—

 

 

He shows up at least three times a week, sometimes with tea in hand and sometimes begging Flower Boy for somewhere new to go. Sometimes both.

 

He goes to the Hikiyama Exhibition Hall to see the floats used in the famed Kunchi Festival (Flower Boy tells him with shining eyes that that’s his favorite festival, because it’s so close to his birthday). He goes to the Yobuko morning market and mingles with the locals (he rests his chin in his hand while Flower Boy recounts spending Sunday mornings there as a small child, and how he’d been afraid of the chaos until one very nice woman had given him some dango to cheer him up). He goes wherever Flower Boy gently suggests, because he wants to know more about the culture and because there’s a certain intimacy there in knowing that Flower Boy grew up here, and that the places he’s sending Viktor to are places that he holds inside him, places that helped shape him, places that have seen him grow.

 

Flower Boy never goes with him, but that’s okay, because when Viktor brings him tea in the morning and tells him his favorite parts, Flower Boy meets his eye and smiles openly and when their fingers brush together he doesn’t turn away.

 

(One day in early February Viktor catches him flinch as he slices his finger on a rose thorn. His fingers are already covered in a collage of mismatched bandages, but he lets Viktor take his cold hands in his and gently bandage him up.

 

His cheeks are stained a soft pink but he _doesn’t turn away._ )

 

This is the pas de deux they dance. Viktor leads with gentle guiding hands and patient understanding, and Flower Boy –miraculously, unexpectedly, beautifully – follows.

 

 

—

 

 

Viktor wakes up one morning and it dawns on him that it’s Valentine’s Day.

 

(Sometimes – sometimes he loses time. Sometimes the minutes and hours slip by him, and when he comes back to himself the shadows have drifted across the room and he can’t even recall what he’d been thinking about all that time.

 

But it’s been easier since he left. Easier to mark his place when he can count the number of times Flower Boy has sighed exasperatedly in his direction (twenty-seven) and the number of times he’s asked Viktor to bring Makkachin along with him (forty-three) and the number of times he’s stuttered out Viktor’s name in his sweet voice (sixty-three).

 

It’s hard to lose days when he has Flower Boy to help him keep track.)  

 

He’s got no gift.

 

He’s got _no gift_ and he doesn’t know where to go to find a gift, and even if he did he doesn’t know how to say ‘I need to find the perfect gift for a boy who is beautiful and sweet and kind of sassy sometimes but I like it so he’s kind of perfect and I really really want to make him happy, can you please help me?’ in Japanese.

 

“Fuck,” he says with feeling. Makkachin gives him a look over her shoulder, like she understands his predicament and is berating him for not having thought of this earlier. He throws an arm over his eyes. “Yes, yes, I know.”

 

He spends most of the morning and early afternoon alternating between brainstorming and facetiming Christophe, who is of absolutely no help because all he does is make innuendos and laugh at Viktor’s increasingly frantic googling.

 

“You are so not helping,” he mumbles, deleting the ‘what do you get for a man who is soft and perfect and likes the color blue’ from the google search function.

 

“I’m not really the guy to call for romance, mon cher,” Christophe says with a shrug. He watches Viktor plug ‘I’m going to die’ into the search bar and sighs. “Okay okay, listen. You said your boy has told you some of the foods he really likes, right? Maybe bring him something like that instead of something commercialized.”

 

“I don’t want to bring him food though,” Viktor says, making a face that makes Chris laugh. “I do that all the time, it’s not special.”

 

“Not everything has to be over-the-top, you know.”

 

“Excuse you,” Viktor gasps, fake-affronted.

 

“Yeah yeah, I forgot who I was talking to for a second,” he jokes. “Well you said he works in a flower shop, right? What about –”

 

“Chris, that’s it! Flowers! _Everyone_ likes flowers on Valentine’s Day!”

 

“Ah, no, I don’t think – not _everyone_ –”

 

He hangs up on Chris in his excitement and rushes through a shower. He pauses long enough to give Makkachin a good petting and some extra treats for being his best girl, but then he’s out the door and on his way to Flower Boy.

 

He’s feeling pretty good about his plan but all of that is upended when he throws open the door to the shop and finds utter chaos.

 

It’s nearing dinnertime, but there are still so many people.

 

People crowding the walk-in coolers, people crowding the counter, people lined up at the register. There’s a constant barrage of noise. The coolers are working on overdrive because of the constant opening and closing of the walk-in doors, and there’s a steady stream of customers asking questions about the arrangements. Flower Boy and another coworker who Viktor thinks is called Yuuko look absolutely overwhelmed, red-faced and practically vibrating with adrenaline as they try to take care of customers and design arrangement simultaneously.

 

He’d seen the stress slowly creep over Flower Boy’s features over the last week, but now he’s practically buzzing with it. Even so, Flower Boy moves behind the counter with a smooth grace, dodging his coworker here, tucking a flower into a vase there. Even stressed out he’s exceptionally beautiful, and all Viktor wants to do is press his fingertips into his temples and massage until the tension drains away.

 

Instead, he waits. He wanders by the walk-in coolers, by the corner with all the green plants. Looks at the shelves of stuffed animals and decorations that go in vases and flower pots. By the time he makes it back to the walk-in cooler to check out what hasn’t been picked over, the crowd has thinned, probably in a rush to make dinner reservations. Viktor is a walking cliché so he grabs a bouquet of a dozen red roses that still look to be in pretty decent shape and heads up to the blessedly empty counter.

 

“Hi,” he says, propping his elbow up on the counter.

 

“Hey.” Now that everyone is gone and the adrenaline is flushed out of his system, he looks absolutely destroyed. Even his voice sounds wrecked, and Viktor winces with sympathy. Flower Boy spots the bouquet and raises an eyebrow at him. “Getting some flowers for a special someone?”

 

“You could say that,” Viktor replies with a grin.

 

He watches Flower Boy rewrap the bouquet and tie it off with thick gold ribbon, enjoying the graceful movements of his hands.

 

“¥4,000 is your total.”

 

After he pays, Flower Boy hands him his bouquet and smiles prettily at him.

 

Viktor hands it back.

 

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” he cries.

 

“Wha – I – But you said it was for someone special!” Flower Boy says almost accusingly. He looks adorably confused.

 

“It _is_ for someone special. You!”

 

There’s a screech from the back room.

 

“You bought me flowers?”

 

“Yes!”

 

“You bought someone who works in a flower shop flowers. From his own flower shop.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You bought someone who works in a flower shop flowers from his own flower shop on Valentine’s Day.”

 

“Yes?” Viktor pauses. He takes in the exhaustion that haunts Flower Boy’s eyes, and the multitude of multi-colored bandages on his fingers, and the mess of scattered rose stems and plucked petals that litter the floor behind the counter. “Ah. Perhaps I did not think this through very well.”

 

Silence, and then the coworker in the back room snorts and starts laughing, and then Flower Boy is hugging the bouquet gently to his chest and breathing in the petal-soft scent of the roses, trying to hide the flush spreading down his neck.

 

“Thank you,” he says quietly into the roses.

 

“I…can’t believe I did that, you must be tired of flowers,” Viktor says. He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. This definitely isn’t how he imagined this going, but he can still save it. “Can I maybe take you to dinner? To make up for it? As friends maybe? No pressure of course! I just, um, well, I –“

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay?”

 

“Okay. But I pick the place.”

 

“Okay!”

 

They meet up in front of the flower shop an hour later. Flower Boy takes his hand and leads him to a ramen stall a few streets away, the sunset over the ocean in full view.

 

(Flower Boy’s hands are still bandaged and stained green but they’re warm and his fingers fit between Viktor’s like they were always meant to be there.)

 

It’s the best ramen Viktor’s ever had.

 

 

—

 

 

They’d been slowly but steadily growing closer, but after Valentine’s Day they’re magnetized.

 

Flower Boy still suggests things to keep Viktor occupied, still doesn’t come with him. But each place Viktor visits feels infinitely more personal than before, no longer tourist attractions but places like Flower Boy’s favorite restaurant and the park in which Flower Boy whiled away his time after school when he was a child.

 

Each day he looks more and more familiar to Viktor too, and it’s starting to drive him crazy because he’s _sure_ he knows him from somewhere. He would take a photo and send it to Chris if he didn’t think Flower Boy would be upset if he ever found out.

 

(And god he would rather cut off his own arm than be the reason for Flower Boy’s disappointment.)

 

Things come to a head on both fronts in mid-March.

 

Viktor starts seeing hearts popping up around town again, so he asks Flower Boy about it.

 

“White Day is today,” he says as he pulls rotten petals from a stack of roses. “It’s when Valentine’s Day gifts are returned.”

 

“Oh! Does that mean you’re going to give me a gift too?” Viktor asks, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Flower Boy rolls his eyes but his cheeks stain a lovely red, which tells Viktor he is. Warmth spreads through his chest all the way to his fingers and toes at the thought of it. He knows he will treasure anything Flower Boy gives him.

 

Turns out, Flower Boy’s gift to him is something completely unexpected – it’s intimate and unassuming and _profound_ and Viktor holds it close to his heart with gentle, loving hands.

 

“Please call me Yuuri.”

 

Flower Boy – _Yuuri_ – glances up at him, brown eyes alight with nerves, glasses slipping down along his nose, and –

 

Oh.

 

 _Oh_.

 

His memories shift, something falls into place, and suddenly Viktor knows. He _knows_ why Yuuri had looked familiar.

 

Katsuki Yuuri.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because hasetsu is based on a real town in saga prefecture called karatsu, i decided to use real places and real history in this fic. if youre interested in that sort of thing youll want to read the notes at the ends of the chapters. if youre not interested then feel free to smile and nod.
> 
> \- niji-no-matsubara is a strip of pine trees located near the bay in karatsu. it was originally planted to protect the town from strong winds and is considered one of the 100 most beautiful places in japan.  
> \- tea and space kikouan is a cafe near the long bridge that least to karatsu castle. it serves a variety of tea and desserts, including sencha and matcha affogato.  
> \- blue roses symbolize the desire for the unattainable and were worn in a flower crown by viktor (i think while he was still in juniors?). yuuri is anxious here because viktor is looking at an arrangement dedicated to himself lmao  
> \- kagamiyama is a small mountain in town that boasts rly amazing views of the area, including the sea  
> \- valentines day is actual literal hell. i work long hours in my current job in the emergency room, but its nothing compared to the 14-16 hour days i pulled on valentines day in a floral shop. yuuri and yuuko are probably praying for death.  
> \- red roses convey deep feelings, including desire, respect, love, and admiration. a dozen of them classically means 'i love you.' yuuri is totally aware of this.  
> \- in japan valentines day is typically when girls and women give chocolates to the guys in their lives, and white day is when the men reciprocate. i tried to stay away from gender norms (bleh) so in this fic and universe its just giving and reciprocation.


	2. spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Vkusno! Yuuri, this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten!”
> 
>  
> 
> “You should try my mother’s katsudon,” Yuuri says off-handedly, and then turns fire engine red at the implication.  
>  
> 
> “Yuuri!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, i owe all of this to my wonderful artist [@rynyn](http://rynyn.tumblr.com/)!

 

 

****

 

* * *

  

**ii. spring**

_i want to do to you what the spring does to the cherry trees._ \- pablo neruda

* * *

 

 

Yuuri’s life is a series of befores and afters and a lot of them, much to Yuuri’s chagrin, revolve around Russia’s Living Legend Viktor Nikiforov.

 

He gets into ballet and ice skating on his own, without the help of Viktor’s graceful and ever-present influence on the skating world. Before ballet, before ice skating, there’s just — radio silence. He can’t remember a time before Minako-sensei’s stern expressions and proud smiles, can’t remember a time without the chill of the rink air against his skin or the bruises blossoming on his skin like flowers from fall after fall, mistake after mistake.

 

He loves it – truly and irrevocably. The feeling he gets being on the ice or in the ballet studio is something akin to the peace birds must feel while flying.

 

But it’s Viktor — Viktor’s presence on-screen and in-magazine, Viktor’s heart-shaped smiles and flowing platinum hair, Viktor’s graceful arms and strong, lithe body — that’s really the start of Yuuri’s love affair with the ice. When Yuuko first sits him down in front of the mobile television at the rink and babbles about a new up-and-coming skater from Russia, Yuuri doesn’t think much of it. But then he sees Viktor, and everything changes.

 

Viktor is — light. He’s pure radiant _light_ , the embodiment of grace and beauty and elegance in a way Yuuri has never seen before. He is the perfect confluence of soft, flowing lines and precise movements, of serene smiles and sweat-soaked hair. He’s a born and bred champion, made for the limelight and the podium and the glossy magazine articles that Yuuko shows him later with the sound of the Russian national anthem playing in the background.

 

Viktor is everything Yuuri never knew he wanted, but oh does he _want_ . There’s so much opportunity and promise in him; Yuuri looks at Viktor and for a fleeting moment he can see his own future and he _burns_ with the possibility of it.

 

Viktor gets a poodle and Yuuri does too, a sweet little thing he names Vicchan. He’s always been a child of anxiety but with Vicchan next to him he feels lighter, freer, happier. Vicchan is someone he can love unconditionally and without reservation, someone who is there for him when he gets anxious or starts to doubt himself and his skating. Someone who won’t judge him, who won’t care that he’s imperfect and makes mistakes. Vicchan is a life-changer.

 

When Yuuri goes to Detroit, it’s kind of embarrassing to admit that it’s at least partly because of his desire to be closer to Viktor. Finding a coach for himself who can take him farther in the senior division is difficult and moving to a new country with minimal language skills is even more so, but he wants to know how far he can go.

 

(One day Yuuri finds himself looking in the mirror while he brushes his teeth, with Phichit singing into his hairbrush handle in the background, and he realizes something.

 

Viktor had stoked the fire in him for competitive skating, but he’s the one who’s gotten himself to this point. And that’s a revelation – that he can win on his own merit, that he can want the podium outside of wanting to share it to Viktor.)

 

Turns out, Yuuri can go to All-Japan and he can win, which is — just – mind-blowing; incredible; terrifying.

 

Then he goes to the Grand Prix Final and it’s just – over.

 

Yuuri finally gets the chance to share the same ice as Viktor and he can’t even manage to run a clean program. He can meet him in the hallway and still be completely invisible, completely beneath notice, and he can’t even blame Viktor for not knowing who he is because why should he know? _Why should he know_?

 

(Even as a little boy he held an ocean of feeling inside him; as an adult the persistent waters of his anxiety have pocked and gouged at his sense of worth until there’s nothing but scars and giant canyons left in its wake. He can’t help but think Vicchan, who’d had such unshakable confidence in him, would be disappointed if he’d been around to see what Yuuri’s done to himself.)

 

Adrift, he goes back to Hasetsu after a failed All-Japan and Vicchan doesn’t greet him at the door, and his skates sit in the bottom of his closet collecting dust until next season. He gives it one more go and ends up watching the season go by in the dining area of his parents’ inn and that’s — that’s it.

 

That’s _it_.

 

(Until Viktor Nikiforov comes into his life and sweeps him off his feet.

 

And then it’s the start of another before-and-after with the universe centered around that heart-shaped smile.)

 

 

—

 

 

Yuuri thinks that maybe he’s made a mistake, because Viktor can’t seem to stop saying his name now that he’s learned it.

 

“Yuuri! Hello!”

 

“Yuuri! Did you like the cupcakes I brought yesterday, Yuuri? Weren’t they good? Yuuri, I’ll have to get you the recipe from Tendou-san next time I see her —”

 

“The change of the seasons is so beautiful here, Yuuri! Can we go cherry blossom viewing next month?”

 

“Are there any dog parks near here, Yuuri? I think Makkachin would really enjoy meeting other dogs.”

 

Yuuri often finds himself withering under the affronted stares of his patrons whenever Viktor is in the vicinity, because people around here aren’t accustomed to freely using given names and Viktor is most definitely abusing the present Yuuri had given him. It’s embarrassing. It’s anxiety-inducing, and attention-grabbing, and nerve-wracking, and Yuuri sort of wants to sink into the ground every time it happens. But it’s also kind of sweet.

 

(It’s sweet because when Viktor says Yuuri’s name he does so with such reverence, and his voice goes soft and sweet and slow, like he wants to make sure that he’s careful to pronounce it the correct way even though he’s known a Yuri for years and Japanese is still awkward on his tongue.

 

It’s sweet because just the formation of Yuuri’s name changes the composition of his handsome face — his smile turns smaller and truer, and his eyes fill with a light that’s missing from the posters Yuuri has taped to his walls at home, and his shoulders lose what little subtle tension they’d held before Viktor’s eyes alight on Yuuri’s.

 

It’s sweet because Viktor says it like he _wants_ to say it, like the gift of Yuuri’s name is one of his most prized and most treasured even though he could probably buy himself a private island and barely make a dent in his sponsorship money.)

 

Viktor still makes him nervous. Viktor feels unpredictable, but he’s not – unknowable, now. He’s not untouchable, unreachable. He’s not the same ethereal being Yuuri has spent his life watching on screens and looking for in magazines. There’s a saying that goes like this: never meet your heroes, lest they have feet of clay. He doesn’t know about that; all he knows is that Viktor isn’t what he thought he’d be, and the notion that Yuuri gets to discover him one tidbit at a time is anxiety-inducing but also exciting.

 

(He realizes in the middle of a heated discussion of preferred breakfasts – Viktor is pro-breakfast, because he is an actual disaster in the kitchen but is apparently decent at this one meal; Yuuri is indifferent but utterly amused at all the arm-flailing – that the feeling buzzing in his chest when he hears Viktor say his name is _happiness_ , and what a novelty _that_ is.)

 

 

—

 

 

“Yuuri, it’s been so long! I was starting to think you forgot about me!”

 

Phichit’s voice is sweet and familiar filling up the small space of Yuuri’s room at the Inn. He immediately feels awful though when he realizes it really _has_ been forever; they haven’t done more than exchange text messages since Yuuri had called him to congratulate him on his Grand Prix debut performance.

 

Except for the night Viktor showed up.

 

(Except for the night Yuuri called him, hysterical and babbling and convinced that he’d dreamed it all up because there’s _no way_ Viktor was there, in Hasetsu, after weeks of social media silence and rumors of retirement and injury.

 

Phichit had spent most of that conversation either listening to Yuuri’s panicking or helping him breathe through it. Not exactly the best conversation they’ve shared but certainly one of the more memorable.)

 

“I know, I’m sorry,” he says, frowning. Before he can start to spiral into guilt-fueled anxiety Phichit waves him off.

 

“Never mind that. Tell me, how is aunti e Hiroko and uncle Toshiya? How’s Mari? How are you?”

 

“They’re – I’m – Everyone’s okay.”

 

“Just okay? Not charmed? Enamored? Smitten? Besotted? Captivated? In _lov_ – ”

 

“Stop, stop!

 

“The beauty of having lived with you is that I can picture the exact shade of red you’re probably turning right now.”

 

“Why are you like this when you know I’m trying to panic.”  

 

“Don’t even pretend that you don’t love me,” Phichit says voice smug. “So, what has Viktor done now? Did he give you another bouquet from your own shop? Or wait, a bouquet from a _different_ shop? How scandalous!”

 

“He just – keeps bringing me breakfast?”

 

“What a _cad_.”

 

“And he won’t stop pestering me about hanami.”

 

On the other end of the line Phichit grins – Yuuri can _hear_ it. “And that’s a problem, why?”

 

“Huh. Good point.”

 

 

—

 

 

Japan comes alive in the spring.

 

It’s Yuuri’s favorite time of year. There’s just something about the way the pastel pinks and pearly whites of the sakura flowers bloom up so leisurely and gradually, turning the world from cold and grey and into something sweet-smelling and hopeful. He loves watching the way the petals open up over the days and the weeks, loves watching the way people around him open up, too. Something about the wistful and fleeting beauty of it.

 

Viktor pesters him about flower viewing for a few more weeks while Yuuri pretends that he’s not interested. It’s kind of fun having Viktor on the hook like that, but ever since Phichit planted that matter-of-fact ‘so what’ in his brain Yuuri knows he can only play at resistance for so long before he has to relent to Viktor’s practiced puppy eyes. He comes into the shop one day with his silly, wide forehead and heart-shaped smile and Yuuri knows what he’s going to ask, because he’s talking about it for the last two weeks, hinted at it with all the subtlety of a _freight train_ –

 

So Yuuri beats him to the punch.

 

Or rather, _Yuuko_ does.

 

“Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon and evening off, Yuuri?” she says from somewhere behind him, making Yuuri jump and probably look like an idiot in front of Viktor as his mouth snaps back shut. He turns and gives her a hard look, but she’s known him for so long that she’s become immune. “I’m sure Yuuri would _love_ to show you around, and I know _I’d_ love to not hear you ask again.”

 

Viktor flushes, a pretty pink sitting on the apples of his cheeks, and looks at him all hopeful and pleading, and Yuuri can’t say no.

 

(Not that he’d been planning to, anyway. He’d probably give Viktor almost anything he asked for, which is kind of embarrassing.)

 

He sighs, and takes off his apron and folds it, and tries not to blush or shrink into himself at Yuuko’s sly look and Viktor’s triumphant cheer.

 

Viktor’s excitement is palpable as they exit the flower shop, and once Yuuri gets them going in the direction of the castle there’s no stopping Viktor’s long legs and carefree smile as he tugs them across the bridge.

 

The bloom of pink is not something that can be hidden, so Yuuri knows that Viktor has seen all of this before, has probably been watching the petals unfurl for the last week. He doesn’t understand Viktor’s energetic excitement until the fingers curled around his wrist shift and gentle. Viktor doesn’t let him go, and they’re not quite holding hands, but the meaning is clear.

 

It’s hard to believe. Maybe he doesn’t want to see it with him specifically. Maybe he just wanted a native of Hasetsu, to show him the best hanami spots and explain the different kinds of food available. Maybe anyone would’ve done, and he just happened to be there.

 

(Yuuri’s anxiety is an insidious thing, slipping into his thoughts and sowing seeds of doubt into them until they take root and flourish.)

 

But –

 

He’d been pestering Yuuri for ages about going, but he could’ve gone at any point on his own. Viktor was here for weeks before he ran into Yuuri – or rather, before _Makkachin_ ran into Yuuri. It’s evident that Viktor can communicate with people well enough to get his needs across. That can only mean that –

 

Viktor wants to see this with _him_.

 

Yuuri lets out a breath, a small exhalation of feeling. He doesn’t realize he’s stopped walking until he feels Viktor tugging gently on his arm. He looks up to see clear blue eyes marred with concern.

 

“Yuuri?”

 

Viktor _wants_ to see this with him.

“I’m – I’m fine,” he says. Viktor’s eyes are still on him, so he takes a bracing breath and gets his feet back under him, so to speak. “Do you, ah, maybe want to get some food while we’re here? Hanami is hanami without some dango.”

Viktor gives him a look of such warmth, and the bitter hands of anxiety fade into the middle distance. The smile that steals over his handsome face is nothing short of a miracle.

 

In the end Viktor buys them enough dango to feed an army, as well as some sakura mocha and hanami cookies. Their hands are so full that they have to find a place to settle down so they can eat. Viktor pops the sakura mocha into his mouth first, and after a few seconds he scrunches up his nose at it. Yuuri laughs and copies him.

 

“It’s the texture,” Viktor says by way of explanation as soon as he’s done.

 

The hanami cookies have a better reception, with their combination of sweet granulated sugars and salty pickled blossom decorations, but it’s the dango that wins the day. Viktor pops the first little ball into his mouth, chews, and looks at Yuuri with wide eyes full of wonder.

 

“Vkusno! Yuuri, this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten!”

 

“You should try my mother’s katsudon,” Yuuri says off-handedly, and then turns fire engine red at the implication.

 

“Yuuri!”

 

After they finish their mountain of food Viktor stretches out, leaning back on his elbows and looking up at the canopy of pink fluttering above their heads. He looks so peaceful, so content in that moment, so beautiful and real that Yuuri can’t help but reach out and brush their fingers together to make sure it’s not a dream.

 

(It’s not – it’s definitely not.)

 

To his relief Viktor doesn’t latch on or turn to look at him – honestly Yuuri would probably die if he did, his face feels red enough to burst into flames at any moment. Instead he just curls his pinky around Yuuri’s and smiles up at the sky, and god, that’s a look Yuuri’s never seen on him before. None of the posters or magazines have done him justice.

 

“Ahh, I ate so much I don’t know if I can move now,” Viktor says softly. Yuuri makes a quiet noise of agreement.

 

So they don’t.

 

Instead, they stay and watch the sunset filter through the flowers, bright pinks and oranges giving way to the softer colors of dusk as the sun sinks down into the ocean.

 

(There’s something in Japanese folklore, or maybe folk religion, something ancient and storied, about the sakura tree. It used to be that people believed each one was a god to be loved and celebrated. They would pray to them, ask them for bountiful harvests or healthy lives.

 

Yuuri used to ask for talent, but now when he looks inward he finds all he wants to ask for is Viktor – Viktor’s time, Viktor’s attention, Viktor’s close and warm presence.)

 

(It doesn’t occur to him that Viktor may be quietly, patiently asking for the same thing.)

 

 

—

 

 

Evidently a Viktor Nikiforov with too much time on his hands is well, a _handful_.

 

Yuuri’s seen the way Viktor refuses to look at Ice Castle Hasetsu, so he doesn’t think Viktor’s been skating at all the whole time he’s been here. Even if he has, he hasn’t competed in Russian Nationals, Europeans, or World’s, and now it’s the off-season.

 

(Yuuri is _so_ curious, but he knows what it feels like to keep secrets, and Viktor doesn’t owe him a thing.)

 

Viktor’s always been a creative force to be reckoned with, so without choreography and training as a funnel, he’s apparently been trying things out. Yuuri knows this because one day he flounces into the shop with a shoddily made handcrafted…something. Yuuri thinks maybe at one point it was supposed to be a cup because of the way Viktor’s holding it, but he can’t really be sure. The thing is lopsided, and the rim of it is a bit…deflated…in some places, making it look like a deformed flower. There’s a handle on the side of it, but it’s so thin that it looks ready to snap rather than support the weight of the cup. All of that is wrapped up neatly in a neon-colored, sloppily painted package.

 

“Yuuri!” Viktor greets. He’s beaming, his natural sunny disposition shining through. Yuuri smiles back kind of helplessly. “I made something for you!”

 

“O-oh, for me?” Yuuri stammers out. He can hear Yuuko snickering in the back room and resolutely ignores her.

 

“Who else would it be for?” Viktor says and then winks. _Winks_! Yuuri has spent an inordinate amount of time with this man since mid-January, and while he’s gotten used to some of Viktor’s antics and grandiosity, the flirtation is still enough to get him flustered.

 

And he’s been doing a lot more of that since the flower viewing.

 

(Both the flirting _and_ the flustering.)

 

“It’s, ah, very… Um. Nice. What – what is it?”

 

“A tea cup!” Viktor’s pinky flies up and he grins. “Not that you can actually use it.”

 

Yuuri brings his hand up to his mouth to smother a snort. “Yeah it’s kind of…lopsided.”

 

“Yakov is always telling me to work more on my technicals,” Viktor says with a grand sigh, as if it explained everything.

 

“So you… Made a useless tea cup?”

 

Viktor just winks – again.

 

(Yuuko waits til Viktor flounces back out and then folds her body over on her desk and laughs until she cries.)

 

The week after Viktor saunters in with something that might be a sake cup, this time decorated with streaked-through blue lines that might be a snowflake or a spider web, Yuuri can’t be sure. At least the cup is relatively stable, though not quite symmetrical.

 

Then it’s a plate that’s more oval than circular and decorated with little slightly off-color blips connected by a line that Yuuri thinks are meant to represent dango, and then a saucer to go with the first tea cup, and then a rudimentary bowl. As time goes by, Viktor’s little projects get better, the construction more sound.

 

And then one day in early May he brings in something that’s actually sort of (really) beautiful.

 

It’s a vase.

 

It’s cylindrical, asymmetrical, ridged in some places, and smooth beneath Yuuri’s fingertips except for little flaws here and there that catch at his skin. It’s been painted and glazed on the inside as well as the outside, so Yuuri knows it was made to be used. It reminds Yuuri of the kind of pottery that the area is well known for, and he wonders if that’s why Viktor made it, if Viktor’s been taking classes.

 

“This is really good, Viktor. You’ve improved so much.”

 

“Are you saying my other stuff is bad?”

 

“That’s pretty much the gist of it,” he says without actually thinking. Once he realizes what he just said he slaps a hand over his mouth and glances up. Viktor is looking at him with round eyes. For a moment they just stare, both suspended in disbelief, until Viktor makes an ugly snort sound and starts laughing openly in Yuuri’s face.

 

“I made this just for you and this is the thanks I get,” Viktor says once he’s calmed down.

 

“I don’t remember thanking you,” he fires back, his face red and hands shaking in his apron pockets.

 

This is new territory, and he can feel the grabby hands of his anxiety trying to drag him back into his doubts. Yuuri is a master of sass according to Phichit, but he feels like he’s been navigating his relationship with Viktor on wobbly foal legs. He’s definitely one of those people who analyzes conversations days or even weeks after they take place, checking each word and inflection for potential crossed wires or misunderstandings.

 

But Viktor just grins wildly at him, and Yuuri feels alive with promise.

 

(After Viktor leaves Yuuri thinks.

 

He thinks about Viktor taking pottery classes, because that’s what Hasetsu is known for and he wants to be involved in Yuuri’s heritage. He thinks about Viktor’s slim, graceful hands getting dirty, struggling to shape the clay. He thinks about the time and effort Viktor’s put into making these little gifts for him – so much better than anything he could’ve bought, because he made them with Yuuri in mind.

 

He doesn’t say as much, but he doesn’t have to.

 

Yuuri’s mind is full of Viktor as he fills the vase with beautiful things – stock, ranunculus, lavender roses, Japanese peonies, tree fern, ting. The next time Viktor comes in Yuuri hands the vase back, and pretends not to see the way Viktor’s clay-stained fingertips trace the soft petals, or the way the blush settles on his cheeks at the sight of them.)

 

 

— 

 

 

They go running together for the first time a month after hanami. Viktor’s been trying to convince him to go for ages, but in the end it’s really Makkachin with her sweet puppy eyes and her soft fur who seals the deal.

 

He doesn’t say anything, but it seems that Viktor knows running isn’t an integral part of Yuuri’s everyday routine anymore. He promises lots of breaks and pets, and when Yuuri points out that that’s coercion Viktor just laughs and pulls him along anyway. It starts off nice and leisurely – a run along the bay, through Niji-no-Matsubara. They chase each other between the trees, and when Viktor trips over upturned roots Yuuri laughs so hard at the scandalized look on Viktor’s face that he cries.

 

Yuuri doesn’t like running, but he does like the fact that he can eat more katsudon now, and he loves the fact that he can spend time like this with Viktor. It’s different like this, seeing Viktor sweat. Yuuri is intimate with the training it takes to be a professional athlete, but Viktor had always made it seem so easy, so natural. Watching him struggle five kilometers up a mountain and trip over his own feet in the sand brings the star a bit closer to Earth.

 

And Makkachin, of course, loves the attention Yuuri gives her.

 

Yuuri thinks she’s starting to like him more than she likes Viktor. Maybe.

 

(Definitely.)

 

Then one day Viktor opens his mouth and says, “I want to run to the Hamanoura rice terrace, will you plot a course with me,” and Yuuri calmly waits until Viktor has gone back to his hotel for the evening and then loses his mind.

 

So, he does the one thing he always does when he starts to panic.

 

“Oh my god, a date?! My baby boy is all grown up and going on dates with Living Legends!”

 

“No, it’s just that – well, we’ve been running together and he wants to go further – no wait, not like that, Phichit stop _laughing_ –”

 

“Ohoho, this says it’s _romantic_ , and that there’s a _love bell_ for couples to ring to ensure good fortune in their relationship.”

 

“No! That’s not – are you _googling_ –? Phichit!”

 

“Google is your friend, Yuuri. Just one question though: how many times have you dreamed about ringing a love bell with Viktor? I need to know for science.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

Only Phichit can successfully fluster him when they’re nearly 4,000 kilometers apart.

 

(Except that’s not true, because _Viktor_.)

 

In any case, Phichit is of little help except to remind him to breathe, so that’s what Yuuri does – he breathes, all the way to Genkai with Viktor on his heels, sans Makkachin.

 

(It’s not much help, because seeing Viktor all sweaty and breathless in person like this has started to take on a slightly different connotation – one that he would rather die than admit to Phichit, even though he’s one hundred percent sure Phichit already knows.

 

But Viktor is seriously beautiful like that, with the sweat collecting in the hollow of his throat, making his temples glisten. Lethal, when he lifts the hem of his shirt up to wipe the moisture from his face.

 

Who needs to run for exercise when you can just look at Viktor and feel your heart hammer itself straight through your chest? 

 

They end up arriving in Genkai with hours to spare before sunset, so they take a cab to the Genkai Energy Park, where they spend time wandering around the Kyushu Furusato Building and the greenhouse. This is the first time Yuuri has gone sightseeing with Viktor except for when they went flower viewing, and it was almost comical how much Viktor resembles an excited child when faced with something new and fun. Yuuri never thought there was much to do in Genkai or even Hasetsu, but Viktor’s appreciation for the pottery exhibit is infectious, and he finds himself enjoying learning the history he already knew through someone else’s eyes.

 

After they leave the park, they stop off at a local sidewalk cafe to grab a bite to eat and walk the three kilometers to join the crowds at the Hamanoura observation deck, with Viktor babbling excitedly in his ear the whole time about all of the things he’d read about it off the internet.

 

Yuuri known off-hand that the Hamanoura terraces were widely known as being among the most beautiful in the world. He’d seen mention of them in various travel magazines here and there, and once they’d even been featured when the NHK Trophy was held in Fukuoka. He’d even seen pictures, from when Takeshi had proposed to Yuuko here.

 

None of that really prepared him for seeing them in person, though.

 

On both sides of them are gently-rounded hills, verdant and lush with greenery, and built into them, sweeping down the narrow corridor in between all the way to the open ocean below, are the rice terraces. It’s May which in the world of rice farming means planting season, and each of the terrace steps are filled with water. The surfaces are calm like glass, reflecting the colors of the sunset so intensely that it’s like looking into a set of infinity mirrors – like it’s just a continuation of the sky.

 

They’d arrived just in time to catch the most beautiful part of the sunset, and Yuuri stops and stares, transfixed, Viktor warm where he’s pressed up against Yuuri’s side. Time passes with the movement of the sun as it arcs gently to the horizon, and as the world moves into the vivid shades of sunset the terraces shift with it, gleaming in golds and pinks and brilliant orange.

 

It’s one of the most stunning things he’s ever seen.

 

“Wow,” he says, borrowing Viktor’s catchphrase. This has only been seventeen kilometers away this whole time, and yet Yuuri has never bothered to see it. He wonders why.

 

“Yeah, gorgeous,” Viktor hums next to him. Their proximity means that Yuuri can feel it more than hear it, a fulfilled sort of rumble deep in his chest that makes Yuuri have to fight not to lean further into him. He glances up out of the corner of his eye, but Viktor’s are focused outward, toward the ocean.

 

 

He’s struck, suddenly, by the quiet reminder that Viktor is a man. He’d spent years trailing along Viktor’s path, hanging up posters and magazine spreads, collecting recordings of his programs. It’s easy to fall into the trap of forgetting that Viktor, too, is human – a flesh and blood being with hopes and aspirations and disappointments and fears.

 

It’s been a realization slowly imposed over time, but is now imprinted on him, something he can’t forget whenever he looks at him and sees the wrinkles by his eyes or the slight lopsidedness of his smile. Now he looks at Viktor and sees the sunset reflected in pastels in the paleness of his hair and the sheen of his eyes and thinks —

 

“God, your hair is beautiful.”

 

Oh no. Oh _no_. He’s the epitome of that trope that appears on shoujo manga all the time, isn’t he — the one where the male lead and his love interest are gazing at some pretty scenery and when the love interest comments on how pretty it is the male lead just looks at them and says something along the lines of ‘yeah, beautiful.’ Ugh.

 

But Viktor’s hair is actually a work of art right now, with the way the it’s making the bold colors soft, with the way it’s making a halo of color around Viktor’s face. It paints a picture of utter serenity, except Viktor is looking at him, his mouth rounding out to form an ‘o’ and his pretty blue eyes wide in shock.

 

Oh god, he’d said at least part of that aloud, hadn’t he. Oh fuck.

 

“Um!” Yuuri tries to backtrack, but his brain goes totally blank with panic. He’s stuck here with Viktor and only with Viktor, seventeen kilometers away from home, and he’s going to have to share a cab with him all the way back home, and he’s probably going to have to see him in the shop after this too because Viktor wouldn’t — Viktor wouldn’t —

 

Oh _god_ , what if Viktor thinks he’s crazy and never talks to him again? What if he tries to deny it and hurts Viktor’s feelings?

 

 _Fuck_.

 

“Um,” he squeaks. “I just. Your hair is gray.”

 

Viktor flinches at that, and Yuuri barely manages to refrain from sinking himself into the ground.

 

“No! I didn’t mean — It’s just. It’s the perfect shade to reflect the sunset.”

 

He can’t look at Viktor anymore. He’s pretty sure all of the blood in his body has settled in his cheeks, because he’s lightheaded and feels like his face is on fire. He’s lived a quiet life of near-solitude, so this is probably the most embarrassed he’s been since his failure at the Sochi GPF and the subsequent year of subpar skating.

 

He can feel his hands shaking and his palms sweating, so he puts them on the railing of the observation deck to steady himself. After a moment of quiet between them — because, really, what can Yuuri say after that? he won’t apologize for finding any part of Viktor beautiful — he feels the warmth of Viktor’s hand over his and nearly melts from relief even as the butterflies in his stomach explode into life.

 

“I’m, um. Not great with people,” he confesses after a few minutes of silence. Viktor starts to shake, and for a moment Yuuri is alarmed, wondering if he’s made another miscalculation, but then he realizes that Viktor is laughing at him.

 

“I’m not either,” Viktor says once he calms down enough, and the quiet remnants of laughter in his voice are something to be marveled at. Yuuri finds it in himself to look back up at Viktor, finally, and finds nothing but acceptance in his open face. Viktor’s thumb charts a path across his knuckles absentmindedly.

 

“But you’re so good in interviews,” Yuuri blurts out.

 

Viktor laughs again, but this time it’s less amused and more sardonic. “That’s because I know how to be what they want me to be. I’m supposed to be charming, flirty. Worldly. That’s the image that was built for me as I grew older.” He shrugs, makes it sound like no big deal, but Yuuri can hear what Viktor isn’t saying: I’m so used to being what other people want me to be that I don’t know if I even have any me left.

 

He carefully dislodges Viktor’s hand from on top of his and flips his hand around, palm up — an invitation. Viktor looks at him for a long moment and then his fingers are threading between Yuuri’s and their palms are settling against each other, warm and a little damp with nerves.

 

Viktor has given him so much — so much that he doesn’t deserve, if he’s honest — so Yuuri takes a deep, aligning breath and says, “I… I may have omitted some of the truth from you. I was a figure skater for the JSF.”

 

Viktor gives his fingers a squeeze, and his gaze on Yuuri is warm and encouraging. “I know.”

 

“You — you _know_? But I —”

 

“You were at Sochi, right? Your step sequences were gorgeous. It took me a while to recognize your name, but I could _never_ forget your skating.”

 

Viktor doesn’t ask why he stopped, and Yuuri feels so intensely grateful for a moment that he nearly sags against the railing. He holds onto Viktor’s hand almost desperately, a little overwhelmed.

 

“You know, I wouldn’t want you to be anyone but yourself,” he says quietly, and turns his face back out to the ocean. The sun has mostly fallen below the horizon, leaving just a tinge of green and purple to be reflected dimly in the calm waters of the rice terraces. He hears Viktor’s sharp inhale and wonders how long he’s been waiting to hear someone say that.

 

They stay at the observation deck long after the sun disappears, long after the other viewers depart, shoulders pressed together and hands holding tight to each other.

 

“I wish we could do this more often,” Viktor laments as the evening chill starts to set in around them.

 

“What, hold hands?” Yuuri asks absently as he calls for a cab. Viktor grins at him.

 

“I meant spend time alone together, but that too,” he says with a warm laugh.

 

“Oh. I — me too, Viktor.”

 

The cab arrives — faster than Yuuri anticipated, but the observation deck is close to a major street — and they settle into a comfortable silence for the half hour drive back to Hasetsu. Yuuri can’t stop looking at him now that Viktor’s opened up to him. It feels like he’s staring at a juxtaposition, because he can still see the hint of the Viktor of the public in the smile he gives the cab driver and the way he charms the woman despite not having any languages in common with her. But when Viktor climbs into the back and presses Yuuri’s hand down into the seat between them, there’s no facade for him to hide behind. It strikes him, then, that Viktor must so utterly trust him, and that more than anything — more than the handholding, more than the smiles, more than the softness of his eyes — is what makes the soft heat bloom up inside him.

 

When they arrive, Viktor gets out and pays the cab driver, hesitates, and then turns to head inside, and before he knows what he’s doing Yuuri’s scrabbling out of the cab. He catches Viktor’s hand in his own — and god, he’s starting to know the shape of it in his own, and isn’t that a revelation — and before he can think himself out of it he blurts out “there’s a summer festival coming up in July. Please go with me!”

 

“Hmm. Are you asking me on a date?”

 

“I-if you want it to be. I mean, yes? Yes.”

 

Viktor smiles at him then, so softly and sweetly and hopefully that it makes something inside him _ache_ , and pulls Yuuri’s hand up to his mouth to press his lips to Yuuri’s bony knuckles. “I’d love to go with you.”

 

 _Oh god,_ Yuuri thinks. He just asked Viktor on a date. A _date-date_ . Not a sightseeing venture. A date. A date where two people hang out alone with each other, romantically. A _date_.

 

And Viktor said yes.

 

(He’s so dazed that it takes him a solid five minutes before he realizes he’s been walking in the wrong direction.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because hasetsu is based on a real town in saga prefecture called karatsu, i decided to use real places and real history in this fic. if youre interested in that sort of thing youll want to read the notes at the ends of the chapters. if youre not interested then feel free to smile and nod.
> 
> \- hanami is flower viewing, except more encompassing. it is the custom of going out and enjoying the flowers and appreciating the transience of beauty; the flowers form, bloom, and die in such a short period of time that they are a study of life and death and the fleetingness of beauty. originally hanami referred to plum blossoms but at some point in history cherry blossoms became the preferred flower for hanami, so now hanami refers to the cherry blossom bloom. dates of the blooms depend on location — the further north you are in japan, the later the bloom. in kyushu, hanami takes place generally between late march and mid april. most people go outside and have picnics with their family or s/o; in some cases there are mini-festivals with street food vendors. viktuuri observes hanami at hasetsu castle, bc irl karatsu the castle is a recommended viewing spot.  
> \- the food that viktor eats is popular during hanami. dango are little round balls of rice flour, sakura mochi are anko bean paste treats, and hanami cookies are butter cookies with salt pickled sakura blossoms as decoration.  
> \- we dont rly see this bc its yuuris pov chapter but viktor makes yuuri these pottery pieces bc 1. he is bored out of his mind without smth creative to hold his interest, 2. hes rly genuinely interested in learning more abt yuuris culture, and 3. he wants to make yuuri smth he can use and appreciate bc he gets the feeling that yuuri would like that. karatsu is home to a certain style of pottery called karatsu-yaki which originates back to the 1500s. it is one of three styles of pottery used for tea ceremonies and is one of the top pottery styles in japan.  
> \- the little bouquet yuuri makes in viktors vase does have meaning: stock symbolizes beauty and bonds of affection; ranunculus means 'you are radiant with charm;' peonies represent love between strangers, beauty in all forms, and shame (take that how you will); lavender roses express love at first sight and fascination. tree fern is just a common filler in arrangements, and ting is a fun bit of decoration that comes in all kinds of colors, though all of them are quite glittery haha  
> \- hamanoura no tanada is one of japans five most beautiful rice terraces, located on the coast of the island of kyushu in genkai. it is known for being particularly romantic as the sun creates a mirror-like effect on the water in the month of may, which is the start of rice planting. it is surrounded by two hills on either side, an observation deck on another side, and the beach on the fourth side. on the observation deck is a love bell, which is rung by couples seeking good fortune in their relationships. it is particularly beautiful at sunset, where the waning sunlight is reflected directly off of the water in the terraces. viktor knows all of this bc he looked it up, so ill just say theres a reason he wanted to go there with yuuri wink wonk


	3. summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Kingyo sukui,” Yuuri says, smiling. “You have to scoop goldfish with a paper scoop. I don’t know if you’re patient or calm enough for that.”
> 
>  
> 
> The competitive thing that dwells within him rises up out of its dormancy and he narrows his eyes at Yuuri. “Is that a challenge?”
> 
>  
> 
> “Oh,” he says softly, his eyes glinting, “I don’t think it’s going to be much of a challenge for me at all.”
> 
>  
> 
> (it's festival time!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very very sorry for the delay in getting this posted. my partner and i both took turns getting sick, and then she started university again and i decided to apply for the JET program, got writer's block pretty bad, and then got picked up by a couple of zines. so it's been a whirlwind of a time lol.
> 
> there will be art for this chapter, but since jo is busy with actual academic deadlines (haha..ha..h a) it will come at a later date!
> 
> and as usual, i owe all of this to my wonderful artist [@rynyn](http://rynyn.tumblr.com/)!

 

 

 

 

****

 

 

* * *

 

**iii. summer**

 

 _i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses._ \- e.e. cummings

* * *

 

  
June sinks into his bones the same way winter does when he’s back home — it gets in deep, right into the very marrow of him, and it stays. Only, instead of the harshness and the cold and the monochrome of dirty snow and white, sickly skies, there is softness and light and effusive, vivid colors and a sky so blue Viktor can hardly believe it’s real.

 

(Like the leap of Viktor’s heart when Yuuri looks up from his work and smiles at him, dimples in his cheeks and eyes alight with happiness.

 

Like the ebullient warmth that blooms in his chest at the sound of Yuuri’s laughter when he’s surprised into it.

 

Like the way his stomach jolts and jitters whenever he thinks back to that day among the cherry blossoms or that evening standing on the observation deck, the heat of Yuuri’s body in relation to his own in the midst of those private moments.

 

Like the way he looks at his own reflection in the evenings, utterly besotted and blushing with happiness and the effervescence of the butterflies that linger after every visit, and realizes he’s never seen himself look that way.)

 

It’s Yuuri laughing at him as he’s trying to sing along to J-Pop that filters through the shop from the little radio that sits on the back counter, and the sweet perfume of flowers that sinks into all of the clothes he’d brought with him, and escaping the heat of the summer in teh shade of Hasetsu Castle during Yuuri’s lunch breaks.

 

It’s being caught in the waning shadow of Ice Castle and not feeling the immediate need to escape anymore — instead, it’s looking in the clear glass windows and seeing he ghosts of a new routine being built, and wondering if Yuuri’s hand in his would be warm as they glide across the ice.

 

June is the realization that he’s been sleepwalking through his life for the last twenty years — he had to have been, there’s no other explanation for the way he feels so goddamn alive, no other reason to suddenly be so aware of the blood in his veins or the beat of his heart or the gentle prickle of the sun kissing his skin.

 

That’s what June in Hasetsu feels like.

 

That’s what _being with Yuuri_ feels like.

 

(It makes him wonder what he’d look like now, out on the ice, donning these newfound feelings like a second skin.

 

Hm.)

 

—

 

 

“Hey, Yuuri,” Viktor says, cutting through the ambient noises of the two of them huddled together in the flower shop, picking out of each other’s bento boxes (that Yuuri had packed!!!). The little sausage octopuses — octosausages? sausapuses? — are impossibly cute, so he steals as many from Yuuri as he can get away with.

 

(Yuuri raps his knuckles with his chopsticks when he notices what Viktor is doing, but he’s got this soft, soft, unbearably fond look in his pretty doe eyes instead of annoyance at Viktor’s petty thieving; it’s a Look, trademarked and copyrighted, and it pulls at him like the moon pulls at the ocean.

 

Viktor imagines Yuuri humming in his kitchen and making food with Viktor in mind — like he did with the bento he’d so sweetly placed in front of him this afternoon, with red cheeks and steady hands — but the breadth of the feeling is too much to quantify, too big and too warm to be contained or conducted.

 

He’s learning to love and embrace every skip and stutter of his heart.)

 

“Steal my food again, Nikiforov,” Yuuri warns, “and see if I ever bring you food again.”

 

“Oh, no! Viktor puts his chopsticks down carefully on the piece of paper Yuuri had folded for him. He throws his hand up to his face a la Scarlett O’Hara, going for his most dramatique impersonation, pulling out all the stops. “Katsuki Yuuri has doomed me to a lifetime of starvation and solitude! I’ll never recover!”

 

Yuuri snorts. “You’ve survived for twenty-seven years.”

 

“I’ve no idea how I managed,” Viktor says, and really, he doesn’t. The difference between Living Legend Viktor Nikiforov and Yuuri’s Viktor is stark, and perhaps more telling than he wants to own up to.

 

He’d never really known how much of his story wasn’t his, but he’s finding out now.

 

Yuuri must sense something more to his words — maybe it’s the way his voice shakes, almost imperceptible, or maybe it’s the way his smile has turned plastic at the edges. He puts his own chopsticks down and, with the determination of a soldier given marching orders, covers Viktor’s hand with his own warm palm.

 

Viktor, eternal sap that he is, turns his hand in Yuuri’s and twines their fingers together until he can feel the encroaching chill melt away again.

 

“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing Yuuri’s fingers. “I can still be saved. I distinctly remember you offering to feed me your mother’s katsudon.”

 

Yuuri blushes and laughs and, gosh, Viktor is a doomed, smitten man. He finds himself leaning closer, nothing but a few inches of empty space to separate them.

 

“O-okay, but fair warning: once you try her cooking you’ll never want anything else.”

 

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true.” His gaze flickers to Yuuri’s mouth — his chapped lips and the perfect dip of his cupid’s bow — and thinks, _I want you plenty._

 

(See, Viktor has been thinking about kissing Katsuki Yuuri for a while now — he wants to say ‘forever’ but he also knows that’s not accurate, he and Yuuri had only met a few months ago after all. But it feels like forever to him.

 

He’s been thinking about taking Yuuri’s face in both of his hands and holding him there so  gently, of brushing his thumbs along the apples of his chubby cheeks. He’s been thinking of what Yuuri’s mouth might feel like on his — chapped, probably, a little rough but so warm and so pliant. He’s been thinking — daydreaming, really — about how Yuuri kisses, imagines him to be soft and a little hesitant, growing into the boldness that peaks out every so often and surprises Viktor in the best of ways. Imagines the way he’d tilt his head just so to align them better, imagines the soft little exhale and the puffs of warm breath on his cheek as Yuuri breathes life into him.

 

It’s getting harder and harder to think of anything else.)

 

Yuuri turns pink and distracts himself with stealing back the sausopus currently captured between Viktor’s chopsticks. “My mother has been asking when I’m going to bring you over,” he concedes.

 

“Yuuri! You’ve told your mother about me?!”

 

“Yep. She kept asking why I always come home looking annoyed and exhausted, so I told her it was you.”

 

“Savage.”

 

 

—

 

 

Viktor realizes in the early part of July that he doesn’t actually know what to wear to a festival or even what a festival entails, exactly. He spends a solid week agonizing over this, because on the one hand he wants to not only learn about Yuuri’s culture and heritage, but to live inside it and experience it as properly as he can as someone not native to Japan; but on the other hand a loud part of him aches to surprise Yuuri, to make his eyes light up and paint his cheeks pink.

 

He calls Chris halfway through the second week of July which only results in mild teasing instead of a resolution of his dilemma. He doesn’t think Yakov would know, (nor does he think Yakov would take his call but that’s neither here nor there), and he doesn’t really want to key Mila, Georgi, or, god forbid, _Yuri_ in on his location; as much as he loves his skating family back home, there’s a reason he didn’t tell anyone where he was going when he left.

 

That leaves Yuuko, Yuuri’s coworker (and possibly ex-girlfriend? he should look into that) and, apparently, former rinkmate.

 

(He finds this out one day when Yuuri is busy in the back room and Yuuko has a devilish look in her eyes; Viktor already knows Yuuri skated but he is curious and Yuuko is an invaluable font of knowledge when it comes to younger Yuuri.)

 

He barely even has to ask before her eyes light up and she agrees, mumbling something about repaying Yuuri for all the babysitting he’s done over the last year, which Viktor thinks he’s misheard because Yuuko does not look old enough – or _stressed_ enough – to have a full-time job _and_ kids.

 

(Boy is he wrong about _that_. He meets the triplets and her husband when they meet up for their shopping date and he remains in awe of her for the rest of the day.)

 

“So there are three types of clothes you can wear to these things,” she says as they amble toward the old district. “Yukata are pretty much standard for festivals – they’re the full-bodied ones that come in different colors and patterns, sort of like kimono – but jinbei are becoming more popular with both genders. They’re also cooler in warmer weather like this, but they’re plainer. And of course there’s western clothing too –”

 

Viktor immediately vetoes that as a non-option with an emphatic shake of his head.

 

“Or not!” she says, laughing. “Well, if you really want to impress Yuuri, we can go all-out and get you a yukata. That’s what he’ll be wearing, after all.”

 

There’s a glint in her eye – something laughing, suggestive, like she _knows_ that Viktor is suddenly overcome with mental images of Yuuri looking beautiful in a yukata, and then overcome with useless jealousy at the fact that she knows what Yuuri looks like in a yukata – but before he can comment she steers him into a long, narrow shop filled floor to ceiling with shelves on which folded fabrics of all colors and patterns sit neatly and the hunt for the perfect color and pattern is on.

 

It takes ages to find a yukata that fits him in height, and even longer to find one in a design that he likes and that Yuuko approves of, but Viktor knows the moment he finds The One because Yuuko’s eyes light up, and there’s a fine dusting of pink settling into her cheeks and this satisfied grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

 

It’s a muted shade of dark green, kind of earthy, and there’s a faint pattern of fish imprinted on it in crisp, white lines. Yuuko worms her way into the dressing room with him, modesty forgotten, and ties him up like a present with a wide belt she calls an obi. When she’s all finished he looks into the mirror and barely recognizes himself – the lines of yukata lend a certain strength and grace to his long, pale neck, and there’s something beautiful about his body hidden beneath the folds of fabric.

 

“Wow,” he says quietly.

 

“Yuuri is going to lose his mind,” Yuuko agrees.

 

 

—

 

 

Viktor waits for Yuuri in front of the flower shop, because even though he’s been in Hasetsu for some time now this is still the fixed point on which he centers himself.

 

Yuuko is working away inside, shaping an arrangement of vibrant purple statice and sunflowers in her hands. So far every time she’s noticed him so much as glance in her direction she’s dropped whatever she’s been working on to give him an exaggerated wink and head nod and two thumbs up. He’s tried to avoid her catching him, but he glances in his reflection to fix his hair and sees her drop the whole bouquet to the counter in her haste to – encourage? reassure? wait, does he look nervous? is that why she’s doing this? he must, oh god, he must look pathetic.

 

Viktor turns away from the shop front and tugs at his sash.

 

He’s nervous.

 

Viktor doesn’t get nervous for performances – not for a while, at least. Not anymore.

 

He used to, he thinks. Probably. At some point in his career when there’d still be a question as to whether he’d make the podium. But that uncertainty had evaporated with each new medal he’d collected, and the questions of ‘if’ he would win ceased to become questions at all. And Viktor is used to being the center of attention in social situations, too – schmoozing with sponsors, living up to the hype of the Living Legend moniker that drapes across his shoulders just a little too wide, like an untailored jacket. It’s not like this is his first date, either.

 

Anyway. Viktor doesn’t get nervous before performances, but here he is, standing in front of Yuuri’s flower shop in his brand new yukata with the folding lines still fresh, waiting for his date and _fidgeting_. He’d arrived stupidly early and Yuuko, bless her heart, had come out from inside just to fix his obi and make sure he hadn’t made any grave mistakes in dressing himself. She’d fussed a bit, her eyes shining bright, and he’d had a momentary glimpse into the future when her girls will be old enough to go to festivals on their own. He imagines her to be the kind of mom to take a thousand photos to scrapbook later.

 

Mercifully, Yuuri shows up not long after that, but the relief is short-lived.

 

Yuuri is breathless and flushed like he’s been hurrying to meet Viktor even though he’s still five minutes early. It’s absurd, Viktor thinks faintly, that Yuuri is the one in motion but it’s Viktor who’s having a hard time catching his breath. It’s been stolen from his chest, snatched right out by the way Yuuri smiles sweetly when he catches sight of Viktor standing there. It’s absurd, because Yuuri is stunning, absolutely gorgeous like this, wrapped in a dark blue yukata that compliments the frames of his glasses and his wide brown eyes. There’s a faint pattern too which melts into the background, broken up by thin blue and white stripes. Unlike Viktor’s, Yuuri’s yukata is closed tight near the base of his throat and reveals nothing except the width and strength of his shoulders through the cloth and the slightest taper of his pudgy waist. His hair is slicked back instead of loose and wild, and Viktor is sort of concerned about the loss of his motor functions because he can’t seem to do much else besides suck in oxygen and gape like a fish at the vision before him.

 

Viktor feels severely outclassed, and he’s not even remotely displeased about it.

 

By the time Yuuri gets close enough Viktor has recovered, just a little. He reaches out and touches Yuuri’s tanned wrist, and then his hand with soft and reverent fingertips, and Yuuri looks up at him and gives him a crooked little grin, and Viktor _aches_.

 

“ _Wow_ ,” he says, and clears his throat. “You look beautiful.”

 

Yuuri flushes deeper and opens his mouth like he wants to refute it, but he closes it instead for a moment before saying a little shakily, “Viktor. You too.”

 

Viktor preens a bit, which makes Yuuri roll his eyes, and then offers his arm to his date. Yuuri grins at him and takes it, and Viktor is content to let him lead the way.

 

(With his free hand Viktor turns slightly and gives Yuuko an enthusiastic thumbs up, delighting in the way she beams at him through the window.

 

“Viktor, what are you doing?” Yuuri asks curiously. Viktor smiles at him and covers Yuuri’s hand, settled in the crook of Viktor’s elbow, with his.

 

“Hmm? Oh, nothing, my Yuuri!”

 

Viktor tries not to take great pleasure in the way Yuuri flusters at that.)

 

They wind through the streets that Yuuri has grown up with, streets that Viktor hadn’t even known to explore. Yuuri visibly nervous; he runs his hands through his hair and touches his neck a lot, and his body against Viktor’s is rigid. He is a hypocrite in the worst of ways, because god, he’s nervous too, but he wants Yuuri to have fun with him. So he does what he does best, which is talk.

 

“Hmm. This reminds me of the time Makkachin got out of my apartment. I was new to St Petersburg at that time and I had to chase her down. I got _so_ lost!”

 

Yuuri laughs and laughs at Viktor’s past misery, and the sound is as beautiful now as it was the first time Viktor heard it. He thinks it probably always will be. Gradually, like a flower, Yuuri opens up, grows less stiff. He responds by pointing out various spots along the way, telling Viktor about the time he’d climbed a tree for Takahara-san because her cat had been stuck part of the way up, and how he’d fallen after rescuing the cat and ended up with a broken arm for his efforts. Viktor laughs at the funny parts and sucks in his breath at the painful parts and presses closer to Yuuri until there’s so little space between their bodies that they have trouble walking.

 

(It’s hot and humid in a way that Viktor is wholly unused to, but he would rather feel a little sticky than give up the feeling of Yuuri’s hip bumping into his with every other step.)

 

They finally reach the festivities as the sun starts to set – Viktor can tell, because the noise and color rise around them in increments until the world bursts with it everywhere, vibrant and decadent, and the air practically drips with the enticing smell of fried food and sweets and the perfume of flowers. There’s laughter there too, and live music, and there are people milling around everywhere he looks, dressed up and happy and smiling.

 

“You know, this festival is rather auspicious for a first date,” Yuuri says suddenly.

 

“Oh?”

  

“Mm. The main focus of this festival is the concept of natsukoshii, which, um.” Yuuri has to pause for a moment to search for the correct explanation. “I guess it’s the concept of wanting to hold onto a memory or a moment that was important in the past and greatly cherished in the present. It’s remembering the feeling of satisfaction after a good skate. Something like that.”

  

Viktor thinks that makes sense — like nostalgia, maybe, but less bitter.

  

(He also doesn’t miss the fact that Yuuri apparently already holds this moment dearly, that just being with Viktor is enough. It makes him warm all over with affection, and he takes Yuuri’s hand in his, folding their fingers together.)

 

“We missed the natsukoshii ceremony and the kaganoho crawl, but we can still do the lanterns if you want. And of course after it becomes fully dark, there are fireworks.”

  

Viktor hums and lets Yuuri lead him by the hand to a line of paper lanterns sitting on the ground. It takes a while because they’re so late, but they hunt down the line until they find two lanterns with papers inside that are unmarked.

 

“You write your wishes for the next year on the paper inside the lantern, and after the sun sets they get lit. They don’t float or anything, but with all of them lit up it makes the grounds of the shrine glow,” Yuuri explains. He takes a pen out of the folds of his obi and pulls the pen cap off with his teeth. “I’ll go first.”

  

He scribbles something in quick strokes across the paper, and Viktor takes a second to admire the shape of the characters before the paper gets tucked back into the lantern. Yuuri hands the pen to him and he takes his turn, writing in deft cyrillic.

  

Yuuri doesn’t ask him what he wrote, and he doesn’t ask Yuuri either. He has the feeling — just an inkling, like an itch under his skin — that maybe they wished for the same thing.

 

His date leads him around after that, saying it’ll be a little bit before the lanterns are lit and that there’s plenty to do to fill the time in between. They wander a little further down the street and it’s beautiful, he thinks, seeing the way people come together to have fun like this. It feels good being in the crowd with Yuuri. He feels loose and languid with the heat in the air and in Yuuri’s body, his muscles relaxed and soft despite his nerves. It’s easy to see how Yuuri is a product of this.

 

“Ooh,” he says, lured in by the bright lights and awnings of a set of game stands that come into view through the crowd. He tugs Yuuri with him, grinning at the bright sound of his laughter. “C’mon, c’ _mon_ , Yuuri! There’s goldfish over there!”

 

“Kingyo sukui,” Yuuri says, smiling. “You have to scoop goldfish with a paper scoop. I don’t know if you’re patient or calm enough for that.”

 

The competitive thing that dwells within him rises up out of its dormancy and he narrows his eyes at Yuuri. “Is that a challenge?”

 

“Oh,” he says softly, his eyes glinting, “I don’t think it’s going to be much of a challenge for me at all.”

 

Viktor grins sharply, delighting in Yuuri’s answering smirk, and slaps down some money . Now he _has_ to win some goldfish.

 

(He doesn’t win any goldfish. Yuuri wins _nine_.

 

Viktor whines a little and Yuuri leans his head against his shoulder as a means of comfort, which makes Viktor feel a little less wounded.)

 

They walk a little further and Viktor points to the booth lined with boxes of snacks and canned drinks, and Yuuri explains that it’s shateki — gun shooting — and that the goal is to knock down the object Viktor wants as a prize with the cork bullets. Viktor wants redemption, so he puts down a couple hundred yen for ten bullets. He wins a box of Kit-Kats on his ninth attempt and dives in right away, splitting one with Yuuri and humming at the citrus flavor on his tongue.

 

They play a couple more games – senbonhiki, or a lottery-type game with strings and a prize tied at the end, and super ball sukui which turns out to be even more difficult than goldfish scooping, much to Viktor’s chagrin.

 

Yuuri stops in front of a wanage booth, contemplating the prizes. There are rows of toys and little boxes full of cheap jewelry and little white and gold cats with raised paws. His eyes are sparkling and he looks like he’s searching for something, so Viktor steps back to watch.

 

Yuuri pays for ten rings to toss and with a look of determination that Viktor finds absolutely adorable _and_ ridiculous, he gets a prize on the fifth try – a little blue jewelry box that he takes from the handler and cradles gently with both hands. They step away from the game stand and Yuuri opens the lid, revealing a child-sized plastic ring decorated with a huge pink flower.

 

“Oh! It’s… Hm. Actually, it’s kind of pretty,” Viktor says after they both spend a few moments staring at it. Yuuri snorts, and then laughs, and that gets Viktor laughing too, and then Yuuri plucks it out of the jewelry box. He reaches down for Viktor’s hand and Viktor swallows because Yuuri’s fingers are warm and sure around his, and then he does something surprising — he slips the ring on Viktor’s pinky finger.

 

“Wow,” Viktor says quietly. He lifts his hand to catch the light from the gaming stand and admires the way it shines through the plastic. His gaze slides past and meets Yuuri’s and they both laugh and Viktor finds himself quietly blindsided by the soft tenderness that settles in his chest. He reaches up to brush back a stray strand of Yuuri’s inky black hair, and doesn’t pull away.

 

“Hey,” he says. He takes a breath, and then another, feeling warm all over. “Yuuri, I really – I really want to kiss you right now.”

 

Yuuri flushes darkly and his eyes grow wide, and he lets out a little involuntary noise of surprise that Viktor wants to live inside. There’s a few moments where neither of them move, where Viktor nearly regrets it, because he feels like he’s just tumbled over the edge of a cliff blind and it’s terrifying – but then Yuuri turns his head a few degrees and presses his cheek into Viktor’s hand and closes his eyes, and Viktor has to close his eyes too and swallow against the feeling of Yuuri’s warm breath on his skin and the heat of his cheek on the pad of his thumb.

 

“May I? Kiss you?”

 

“Yes,” Yuuri breathes, and then he presses up onto the balls of his feet and his hands curl into the collar of Viktor’s yukata, holding onto him like he’s afraid Viktor will back away. Viktor wants to laugh, because that’s ridiculous – why would Viktor ever want to back away from this? He slides his fingers into the hair at the nape of Yuuri’s neck instead and drags him closer, until he’s incapable of smelling anything but the warm sandalwood scent of Yuuri, until he’s incapable of seeing anything but the pink of his cheeks and the expanding pools of his pupils, until he’s incapable of feeling anything but the heat of Yuuri’s body seeping in through their clothes.

 

He kisses Yuuri gently, first on the corner of his mouth and then in the middle, and uses the hand not tangled in Yuuri’s hair to tip his head just so, fingers skimming along the strong bone of his jaw and down to his chin where his thumb rests. Yuuri inhales sharply through his nose at that and presses in harder, mouth parted enough for Viktor to taste the toothpaste he’d used earlier. His glasses dig in a bit uncomfortably but Viktor would never dream of asking him to stop because Yuuri is warm and vibrant and _perfect_.

 

Viktor drags the tip of his nose alongside Yuuri’s as he pulls away, and watches the flutter of Yuuri’s eyelashes as he comes back into focus. He wonders how he will ever stop kissing Katsuki Yuuri now that he’s started.

 

“Okay?” he checks. His thumb sweeps across the fullness of Yuuri’s cheek when Yuuri licks his lips.

 

“Yes. Can I do it again?” Yuuri asks, a little helplessly around the edges. Viktor laughs and kisses him again, and it's even better than the first.

 

Yuuri stays close to him after that, not always touching but close enough that if Viktor wants to reach out and brush a finger down his cheek he can.

 

(And he does, because watching Yuuri’s flush follow it down is the most enticing and wondrous thing.)

 

They wander now toward the food stands, where they order one of everything and share. Yuuri laughs at Viktor’s attempt at drinking ramune and feeds him bits of ikayaki and yakitori from the skewer. The squid is weirdly chewy but Viktor decides that he likes it and tells Yuuri so, which makes him beam with happiness. He gets a little distracted watching Yuuri eat, likes watching the subtle movements of his throat and the little unconscious hums of appreciation at the mixing of flavors on his tongue. He ends up buying Yuuri a candied apple just so he can lean down and cover Yuuri’s sticky-red mouth with his to taste the secondhand sweetness.

 

“Come on,” Yuuri murmurs once all their food is eaten and their hunger satiated. “Let’s go see the lanterns before the fireworks start.”

 

Yuuri was right, the lanterns make the shrine grounds look incredible and glowy, and Yuuri himself is lit up in their flickering light. He’s so beautiful; Viktor kisses him again, surrounded by wishes and fire.

 

They’re still kissing when the fireworks start, their bodies pressed together, Yuuri’s gentle, slender fingers slipping along his exposed collarbones. Viktor pulls back so there’s a centimeter of space between their lips and presses Yuuri’s hand to his chest, just over his heart. When he opens his eyes, he can see the fireworks reflected in the lenses of Yuuri’s glasses, and beyond them Yuuri’s gorgeous brown eyes, full of promise.

 

 

—

 

 

Viktor has a really hard time keeping his hands to himself after that.

  

He can’t really help it, he tries to explain to Christophe on a skype call the week after their date. Yuuri somehow becomes more beautiful every time Viktor takes his eyes off of him, so that when he looks back he’s stunned all over again.

 

“Viktor darling, I have never seen you so smitten. You have it bad!” Chris replies, delighted.

 

“Yuuri’s not much better,” Viktor says, maybe a bit defensively. Just the other day Yuuri had kissed him in his shop, had reeled him in by a hand fisted in the front of his v-neck and pressed their mouths together completely shamelessly! In front of Yuuko!

 

“Well, I should hope not.”

 

Viktor makes a questioning noise into his phone.

 

“Young love is _supposed_ to be hot and heavy, mon cher,” Chris explains. He sounds exasperated and amused. “Now. Tell me all about it. What was the festival like? What did you do? How beautiful did he look in the moonlight? How well does he kiss?”

 

“The festival was great,” Viktor says. He recounts their conversations, describing everything from Yuuri’s surprising competitive streak to the way Yuuri’s eyes had shown with disappointment when he’d had to drop Viktor off at the flower shop. “Not telling you anything else though. God knows what you’d do with those kinds of details.”

 

“Rude. At least send me a selfie.”

 

Viktor acquiesces, scrolling through his camera roll. They didn’t take many photos that night, too absorbed in each other to really think about it, but he locates the one he likes the most and presses send. It’s a photo of Viktor pressing his lips to Yuuri’s cheek, his arm around Yuuri’s neck. Yuuri’s face is lit up with happiness, his eyes closed and his smile big and sweet. It’s a good photo, and it makes Viktor feel warm in his chest.

  

“Is that — what is that on your finger?”

 

“He — he won a ring for me, at one of the game stands.”

 

“Oh! Is the wedding soon, then?”

 

Viktor flushes all the way down to his chest and does not deign to provide an answer.

 

 

—

 

 

It’s the beginning of August and sweltering when Viktor decides enough is enough.

 

He and Yuuri eat lunch together every day, even on days that Yuuri has off work. They meet at the flower shop, and if Yuuri’s working Viktor brings him the Newest Discovery™ from the nearby 7-11 he likes to raid sometimes, and it’s almost the same as it’s always been except now Yuuri invites him back behind the counter and sits close enough that their thighs touch underneath the table. If Yuuri has the day off, he whisks Viktor away to new parts of the city and shows him that there’s still so much left to discover about the place that raised Yuuri. It’s lighthearted and fun and flirty and Viktor begins to understand how falling might not be such an awful thing after all, if he has Yuuri there to catch him.

 

So. Enough is enough. He’s ready.

 

Viktor asks him if they can have their next date at Ice Castle, and Yuuri looks at him like he’s fulfilling a dream, his eyes bright and cheeks prettily flushed. That’s enough to convince him that it’s all going to be fine. He’s never specifically told Yuuri why he left Russia or why he didn’t compete in Nationals or Europeans or Worlds, but he’s never really needed to; Yuuri’s presence has been a soothing balm over the worst of the injuries, wrapping around him and helping him heal with his unwavering support.

 

He’s nervous walking into the rink, but feeling nervous is not the sucking black emptiness he’d felt stepping off the Grand Prix podium so he embraces it with relief. It reminds him of being young and carefree and still in the process of falling in love with the ice. So he laces up his skates, hands working to pull the strings tight. They don’t feel quite right on his feet because they’re rentals, but there’s a kind of relief in that, too.

 

It feels different, but that’s okay, because _he’s_ different.

 

They strike out onto the ice at the same time, Yuuri’s palm warm where it presses against his. Viktor might have been off the ice for months, and Yuuri even longer than that, but neither of their bodies have forgotten what it feels like to fly. They slip and slide across the rink on blades that are probably too dull, on pock-marked ice that probably should have been resurfaced.

 

It’s hard for him to shake off the imperfections when he’s been trained and taught and _trained_ to strive for perfection, but every time he starts to tense up, every time the world narrows down to a small pinpoint, Yuuri squeezes his hand and smiles at him and Viktor slowly, slowly relaxes.

 

They make it a _thing_ whenever Yuuri has days off, and Viktor watches Yuuri’s body bloom into something purely graceful, watches the way his spins tighten up and his step sequences blaze across the surface of the ice. He’s absolutely gorgeous like this, with his cheeks flushed from the cold and breathless, and Viktor discovers something new to love about Katsuki Yuuri in every quirk of his lips and glide of his blades. He’d seen Yuuri’s old programs on youtube but the videos just don’t do justice to the elegance and expressiveness in the lines and curves of Yuuri’s body. Even rusty and a little chubby Yuuri has something Viktor has been lacking, and it commands Viktor’s attention like nothing else has. He looks at Yuuri and sees the elements of routines – sweeping Ina Bauers and triple salchows with perfectly curved tanos and extended cantilevers just inches above the surface of the ice.

 

The passion he’s been missing is found in the warmth of Yuuri’s gaze and the curve of Yuuri’s mouth. In August he starts putting together a program dedicated to the hoarse, desperate sound of Yuuri’s moans when they kiss, and the way his back arches when Viktor shoves his cold hands up Yuuri’s shirt. Skating with Yuuri is intoxicating; it ignites a fire beneath Viktor’s sternum, deep in his chest – a longing for something _more_.

 

 

—

 

 

“I’ve always wanted to skate on the same ice as you,” Yuuri says on a hot Tuesday afternoon while they lean against the boards. The sunlight is spilling in through the windows and it makes the whole rink glow golden. “When it got too expensive to keep skating the part I knew I’d regret the most was that I’d never get to.”

 

“Oh? How does it feel?”

 

Yuuri makes a questioning noise around the mouth of his water bottle.

 

“How does it feel to skate on the same ice as me?”

 

Yuuri stares at him for a moment and then kisses him warmly, gently nipping at Viktor’s lower lip and coaxing his mouth to part for him. The slide of Yuuri’s tongue is hot and wet and Viktor’s moan is loud in the empty rink. Yuuri kisses as passionately and as gracefully as he skates, and Viktor’s heartbeat kicks up and his blood heats and heats until his skin is flushed with it.

 

When Yuuri pulls away he doesn’t go far, pressing his forehead against Viktor’s and breathing hot, damp air against Viktor’s slick mouth.

 

“It feels kind of like that.”

 

Viktor kisses him again, because he can, and says, “Yuuri, I want to return to competitive skating. Will you support me?”

 

Yuuri smiles at him and brushes the fringe off his forehead, his fingers gentle and his eyes so, so tender.

 

“Viktor, of course I will. I can’t wait.”

 

They head out to the ramen shop hand-in-hand after a little more skating and a lot more kissing.

 

Yuuri is quiet for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because hasetsu is based on a real town in saga prefecture called karatsu, i decided to use real places and real history in this fic. if youre interested in that sort of thing youll want to read the notes at the ends of the chapters. if youre not interested then feel free to smile and nod.
> 
> \- in japan it's best to rest chopsticks on a chopstick rest or a folded up piece of paper when they're not in use but you're still eating. putting them down on the table or sticking them vertically into your food is a big no-no.  
> \- there is a difference between the types of clothing yuuko mentions! kimonos are formal japanese traditional clothing worn by all genders. women's kimonos tend to be brighter colors and patterns, while men's kimonos tend to be darker colored and more subdued. kimonos can cost upwards of $20,000 and have many pieces. they're more often seen at weddings. yukatas are lighter, more casual versions of kimonos. the name yukata comes from the words for bath and clothing but they are considered 'lighter' or 'summer' kimonos and are fine to wear out during festivals and other things! yukatas can be completed for around $300. jinbei are the most casual of the three. think abt what viktor wears around the inn -- that green outfit with the shorts and the open collar. they're becoming more acceptable to wear in the summer months at festivals as well as indoors at onsens for all genders. the stitching tends to be looser to allow more air flow.  
> \- [this](https://tinyurl.com/ydapfzou) is the pattern of viktor's yukata, and his obi is gold like [this](https://tinyurl.com/y79fx4kg) one.  
> \- [this](https://tinyurl.com/y7rjjp6x) is yuuri's yukata and [this](https://tinyurl.com/y8u8sjdt) is his obi.  
> \- the flowers yuuko is arranging at the start of the festival are purple statice, which means success and remembrance, and sunflowers, which symbolize adoration and dedication.  
> \- the festival they go to is a real festival at the kagami shrine, which is a shinto shrine! it usually takes place at the end of july but i altered it just a bit to fit the timeline. at the festival they do a lantern lighting where you write your wishes for the coming year on a piece of paper and then light your lantern. they also do the natsukoshii ceremony i mentioned, and there's something called a kaganoho crawl which i couldn't find a lot of information on? but [here](http://kagami.or.jp/saiten/nagoshisai/) is the festival website!  
> \- i mention a lot of games and i tried to make sure the mechanics of them were clear but just in case you want to know how it works or see how the stands are set up, you can check [ website! and ](http://favy-jp.com/topics/640)[here's](http://favy-jp.com/topics/467) a list of foods that viktor and yuuri probably ate!  
> \- the [ring](https://tinyurl.com/y6vdj5o5) yuuri slipped onto viktor's pinky =)
> 
> hope ur ready for the angst train next chapter lol

**Author's Note:**

> check me out at my main [@katsukifatale](https://katsukifatale.tumblr.com) or on my writing blog [@trumpet-geek](https://trumpet-geek.tumblr.com)!


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